


Rightful Places

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Comeplay, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Homestuck Kink Meme, Humiliation, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You should feel hate right now, you are nearly certain; overt cruelty and domination fall within the black quadrants. You don't hate him. You crave this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rightful Places

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [and I shall be dumped where the weed decays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/170399) by [urbanAnchorite (t_ZM)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_ZM/pseuds/urbanAnchorite). 



> There is a line in urbanAnchorite's breathtaking "and I shall be dumped where the weed decays" that suggested this pairing. Then somebody else on the kink meme requested the story that line suggested.
> 
> I was glad they asked for it so I didn't have to. XD

You should not be here. It is presumptuous of you to intrude on him; he is highblooded and unlike most of the company you keep he knows what that means. The idea that he might take offense to your presumption makes you already begin to sweat, a faint prickle of perspiration at the nape of your neck and beneath your arms. You knock at his door anyway.

"Enter," Dualscar says; the door does not open. The casual arrogance—you picture him not bothering to rise, not condescending to tender a polite invitation—thrills you. You obey his command.

Orphaner Dualscar reclines on the stacked boxes of his makeshift room as if on a throne. It is an affront, that there is nothing better for him, but he knows what he deserves. He sets aside the book he has been reading and gives you a look that is half smile and half sneer. "What brings you here, boy?"

You swallow hard. _Saying_ these things—no. The others will not respect their duty; you will not be too ashamed to point that out. "Sir. You have seen the behavior of the highest blooded among us. They are hesitant to take their rightful places in the hierarchy."

His gills flutter once, an acknowledgement. "You want me to school the other children?" he says contemptuously.

Heat flushes your skin. "No, sir." This is what Eridan could be, if he had any dignity. Any certainty of his place. Things would have been so different, had Eridan approached you with a demeanor like this instead of that sniveling, pleading need for attention. "I-I want...I want you to show me my place."

"Is that right?" Dualscar drawls. He rises to his feet. At six sweeps, you are already as broad-shouldered as he is; you are nearly as tall. He doesn't look intimidated by your strength for even a second. "You're asking me a favor. Spell it out."

He is _perfect_. "I want you to hit me," you say hoarsely. "As hard as you can. I'm strong, I can—"

He backhands you before you can finish your sentence. Your glasses go flying. His heavy rings make it a brutal blow, and the casual delivery displays perfect contempt. You barely resist the urge to sag with relief. He cuffs you again, open-handed, on the other side; your cheekbones will bruise.

"You want to know you're beneath me," he says. He sounds amused. "You want to be reminded I could crush you under my boots." They aren't questions, but you nod.

Dualscar strikes you again. You taste blood where the points of your teeth cut the flesh of your mouth. "Highblood," you say.

He sneers. "I didn't tell you to speak." Your heartvalves clench, and you swallow your own blood. Dualscar laughs when you offer no protest. "When you have an audience with your betters, boy," he says, "you should kneel."

"Yes, sir," you say. You sink to your knees. You should feel hate right now, you are nearly certain; overt cruelty and domination fall within the black quadrants. You don't hate him. You crave this.

He swaggers closer, and you are uncomfortably, deliciously aware that you are at eye level with his bulge. He strokes it through his breeches. You can't look away. "The princess ought to keep you for a pet," Dualscar says. "Like a tame attackbeast."

You whimper. Your own arousal is a slowly building ache that you make no move to relieve. When Dualscar begins to unlace his trousers, you lick your lips. "Sir," you say. "My strength—"

"Quiet," he says. "Your strength isn't a threat if you aren't allowed to touch me, is it?"

You wish you had a towel. "No, sir," you whisper.

He pleasures himself in front of you, an outrageous insult, a display of pure contempt. You watch him, avidly, hungrily, and what you feel for him is easily as strong as hate but it _isn't_ hate. You don't have a word for what it is, but you want it to never stop. The movement of his hand is slow and even, like he wants to draw this out, wants to make you keep watching this for as long as possible. His fingers are long and elegant, his bulge perfectly ridged and flushed a regal shade of purple. You want him so much it's hard to breathe.

His pace quickens slightly. "Open your mouth," he says.

Those words strike you at least as hard as his hand did. You do as you're told. You can't bring yourself to look up and meet his eyes.

His release is forceful and copious, filling your mouth, bathing your face, splattering the front of your shirt. You swallow what you can, thick and briny, but his fluids drip from your face onto the floor between your knees. You've never been so humiliated.

You wish he weren't done.

When you raise your eyes to meet his—does he have any last orders for you?—his obvious amusement makes you squirm. "Hands behind your back," he says. He nods at the mess on the floor. "And clean that up."

Your face burns. You're soaking wet, between his fluids and your own perspiration. You do as he ordered, crossing your wrists at the small of your back and bending down to lick the traces of him from the floor. He rests his boot on the back of your neck, and that's nearly enough to finish you.

Dualscar releases you when you've licked up every drop you can. He turns on his heel as if to walk away, as if you bore him now. Your arousal is a steady, demanding ache.

"Please, sir," you say, your voice thick with him. Asking will give him the chance to deny you. "May I see to my own needs?"

He looks back at you, lip curled in a perfect, dismissive sneer. He knows exactly what you've just done. "Ask me tomorrow," he says.

The ache of your desire redoubles. If you weren't already kneeling, you might be brought to your knees with this combination of need and gratitude. "Sir," you say. Acknowledging. Agreeing.

Dualscar walks away.


End file.
